Winter Wilson
By Léonie Cooper profile image Léonie Cooper
1 min read

Winter Wilson

Today I have quit smoking; tired with coughing my lungs up. Early morning the temperature dropped to -7c; everywhere is coated in whiteness, my favourite time of the year in bonnie Scotland.

Symptoms of sickness linked to a parasite infestation I suffered a month ago has returned, forcing another visit to the doctors, fearing these parasites may have evolved to be anti-biotic resistant. Tonight we watched a folk duo named Winter Wilson; perform songs written about their life, themed on with and without disparity, displacement, were interesting, but I could not believe they had not of written about anybody, somebody they'd met along their long winding road. As we enjoyed a bottle of white wine, our glasses incurred comment, against a plastic glass winter held in her hand. I had a feeling the downtrodden duo didn't like us, attendance was thin, not surprising, rabid cultural Marxists they are.

By Léonie Cooper profile image Léonie Cooper
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Diary Roberton